


Say It's Only A Paper Moon

by lovelihead



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Detective Noir, F/F, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Private Investigator, Prohibition, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 17:09:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15562488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelihead/pseuds/lovelihead
Summary: “It’s a shame the colour of your eyes can’t be captured on screen,” Beca’s voice is low, measured, “You’re too vibrant for black and white.”Chloe Beale, a famous film star, contacts private eye Beca Mitchell to investigate her husband whom she suspects is cheating on her. Secrets unravel, laws are broken, feelings develop.





	Say It's Only A Paper Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a bit different. I don't even know if anyone else is into prohibition AUs, but I find the aesthetic of that time really interesting and fun (the reality, not so much). This is basically glorified smut with a side of plot, so, enjoy.

**_Los Angeles, 1933_ **

It’s the middle of an unrelenting summer in Los Angeles. The sun beats down on the city with little remorse; the air so dry and arid that the mere act of breathing causes discomfort. It’s not uncommon for the desert to reach such acrid temperatures, and yet each year brings about a fresh wave of disgruntled incredulity and exasperation that settles over the city like a thick, suffocating blanket.

 

Private eye Beca Mitchell leans back in her office chair, grimacing at the bead of perspiration she feels track down her spine. Being fair skinned and having a fervent animosity for the heat, she wonders every day why she doesn’t move away; to the east coast where she could experience a real winter for a change, or up north to San Francisco where the weather is far more forgiving.

 

It’s a thought she entertains only briefly, before acknowledging how lucky she has been to secure an office space and a clientele as such a young woman. She’s made quite name for herself as a private investigator, catering to the rich socialites of Beverly Hills and Hollywood who would come to her for anything ranging from a suspected adulterous husband, to missing persons and potential murders. The people of Los Angeles trusted her and Beca knew that to pick up and move away would mean to start from square one. Or to not start again at all.

Her office space isn’t anything remarkable. It is comfortable though, with an unassuming wooden desk placed in the middle of the space, flanked by two well-used brown leather armchairs. A book case runs flush against the wall to her left, and to her right are filing cabinets. The space is modest and unpretentious, and although she respects the wellbeing of each and every one of her clients, it does give Beca a little bit of a kick to see the rich socialites who creep into her office under thick veils, and behind dark sunglasses practically vibrate out of their skin with displeasure; as though they’d rather be any place else on the entire planet than in her lacklustre office space, but they have no choice.

 

The plaque on her office door reads ‘B. _Mitchell: Private Investigator’_ in simple, innocuous lettering; an astute sleight of hand that brings people through her door long before they have a chance to realise she’s a woman. It’s a wily move, but usually once they’re seated across from her their desperation has reached such a boiling point that it impedes them from backing out to find help elsewhere.

 

The week had been particularly quiet for Beca. She’d figured the scalding heat would ratchet up tension. Cause friction. That she would have people streaming through her doors, fuming about adulterous spouses or crimes of passion.

 

However, it had been quite the opposite. Not a single soul had ambled through her door, and for the first time in months she has no active cases. She figures the weather may have incapacitated everyone; brought the city to a state of heat-induced catatonia instead.

 

Still, _she_ feels the frustration, left to roast inside of her small, stuffy office with nothing to take her mind off of the way sweat beads at her brow, and how the itchy fabric of her trousers sticks to her thighs.

 

She’s dabbing at the sweat on her face with a handkerchief when she hears a quiet rapping at the door.

 

“Come in,” she speaks soundly, tucking the handkerchief back in her desk drawer and smoothing some wayward strands of hair behind her ears.

 

After a brief pause, a woman with the most striking red hair steps through the door. She looks poised and polished and definitely not as though it’s pushing 100 degrees outside. Her hair is perfectly coiffed, resting on her shoulders softly, and her skin is smooth. She’s dressed in an unassuming slate grey dress that’s cinched at the waist, and a matching woollen hat sits perched atop her head, dipping low over one eye.

 

As she glides into the room, the woman reaches up to lift a pair of large, darkly tinted sunglasses from her face. Beneath them, two of the bluest eyes Beca has ever seen are revealed, glimmering brightly even in the dim lighting.

 

It’s in that moment that Beca realises exactly who this woman is.

 

_Chloe Beale._

 

She’s Hollywood’s sweetheart, the queen of the silver screen. As a phenomenal actress and singer, and being married to one of Hollywood’s most powerful producers, she’s worth more money than Beca could ever imagine. She can’t deny that she’s a little shell shocked by her appearance. Sure, she’d dealt with the cases of some rich socialites and wannabe actresses, but none of them came close to touching Chloe Beale. Everyone in the country knew who she was. Everyone loved her.

 

“Hello, Detective Mitchell?” She speaks melodically. Her tone lacks the usual hint of surprise Beca has come to expect from people who walk through her door, instead it is steady and resolute.

 

“Yes,” Beca responds as smoothly as she can manage, rising to her feet and rounding the desk quickly, but still keeping her distance. Not quite knowing what to do with herself.

 

“I need your help,” Chloe speaks again, and Beca can’t help but feel mildly transfixed by the cadence of her voice.

 

In recent years, films had begun to be made with sound. The silent film era was slowly dying out and Beca couldn’t help but feel dumbfounded by the fact that she’d seen Chloe in a film a few short months’ prior, _heard_ her voice in said film, and now here she was in her office. She was here, speaking to her with that same voice, crystal clear and less distorted than in the pictures, but still the same.

 

Upon Chloe’s questioning look, Beca realises she hasn’t spoken, “Y-yes, of course,” she stumbles, gesturing toward the (now) unseemly looking brown armchair, “Take a seat, please.”

 

Chloe looks out of place in her office, but surprisingly not uncomfortable. She’s glamorous, and beautiful, and she radiates an aura of sophistication and charm, but still, she also exudes a sense of calm and gentility that Beca had never come to expect of a Hollywood star.

 

“I’m not going to pussyfoot around, Miss Mitchell,” Chloe speaks determinedly once they have both taken a seat, “I’m sure you know who I am?”

 

Beca nods in response, not trusting her own voice.

 

Chloe nods in return, “And you know of my husband?”

 

“Yes.”

 

A longer pause ensues, wherein Chloe just regards her. Her gaze is hot; hotter than the mid-July sun.

 

“I have heard that you’re trustworthy,” Chloe continues with slight trepidation, “And my husband-,” she bows her head, “Well, this isn’t something I can trust the authorities with.”

 

Beca nods again, slowly this time. Measured.

 

“So, _is_ this about your husband?” Beca prompts, finally managing to string a sentence together.

 

Chloe meets her gaze and nods concisely.

 

Beca tilts her head, “Ms Beale,” she tastes the name on her tongue, “You needn’t worry, I don’t care who you or your husband are. I will treat your case with nothing but the utmost professionalism.”

 

“I uh- yes, thank you,” Chloe smooths the skirt of her dress with her palms, “I’m sorry, its… a sensitive situation. My husband is a very powerful man, and if news were to leak, well, I’m sure you can understand.”

 

“I do understand,” Beca smiles gently and observes as the apprehension seems to withdraw from Chloe’s body.

 

“He’s been distant,” Chloe continues without further preamble.

 

“Is that unusual?”

 

“Well, no,” Chloe continues, “We’re not –,” she shakes her head, “It’s just _different_.”

 

“Okay,” Beca doesn’t press.

 

Beca prides herself in her ability to read people. It was half of the job, really. But she has always felt a touch out of her depth when it comes to dealing with actors, and Chloe was as good as they come.

 

“I can just sense that something is going on.”

 

“By something, do you mean… adultery?” Beca prods gently.

 

“Maybe,” Chloe fiddles with the diamond on her left hand, “We haven’t really…” she gesticulates with her fingers ambiguously, “…In a long time. He’s never home, he’s short with me. If it’s not that, then something is definitely going on and I’d like for you to get to the bottom of it.”

 

Beca mentally chastises herself for immediately jumping to what horrific crimes or deplorable acts Chloe’s husband could be partaking in. What other possible explanation there could be for his behaviour which wouldn’t involve him lewdly betraying a woman as absolutely breathtaking and phenomenal as Chloe Beale. The mere concept of him being short with her almost sends her blood aflame. Who in their right mind.

 

“I can do that for you,” Beca says earnestly.

 

“I don’t like being made a fool of,” Chloe’s eyes are downcast, “I don’t like being kept in the dark. I am _not_ a kept woman,” her voice gains power and conviction like a wild fire, “I’d very much like to get to the bottom of this so I can move on with my life one way or the other.”

 

“Of course.”

 

There’s a brief pause wherein Beca can physically see Chloe reclaim her composure, “And again, I exist in the public eye, Miss Mitchell, you will be rewarded modestly for your discretion.”

 

“I am not a crook, Ms Beale. I won’t be swindling you. I know who you are and I will treat you with the same degree of professionalism as I treat all of my clients, and for the same fee.”

 

Chloe smiles somewhat at this, the barest tug at the corners of her rouge coloured lips, “Very well. Now, I’m afraid I have somewhere I need to be,” she reaches into her bag with two delicate fingers to procure an envelope, “Here is your first week’s payment. Shall we meet at the same time next week?”   

 

Beca eyes her for one long, pondering moment before she nods, “Certainly, I’ll be seeing you.”

 

She watches as Chloe gracefully slides to her feet and walks across the room. With one final, fleeting glance over her shoulder, she’s placing her sunglasses back over her eyes and slipping through the door.

 

Beca takes a moment to lean back in her chair and process what had just transpired. She basks in the faint floral scent that lingers in Chloe’s wake; rose, jasmine, lily of the valley.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s later that evening when Beca makes it out to Chloe’s estate in Beverly Hills. She’d been following Chloe’s husband, Chicago, since mid-afternoon when she’d caught him over by his production house. He had had an early dinner with another Hollywood starlet whom Beca only half recognised before he retired home. It may have been nothing, or it may have been something, so she snaps a few photos and tails him.

 

It’s difficult to get a good view of the house, although it’s sprawling and grand, she’s kept at least 100 yards away by a wrought iron fence. Still, she sticks to the shadows behind a large hedge, remaining inconspicuous as she pulls out her telephoto lens. 

 

She can see (what she thinks is) Chloe in a window on the upper level. It’s barely more than a silhouette, but she watches as the obscured shape combs through hair placidly for a little longer than absolutely necessary.

 

She makes a mental note to ask Chloe if there would be a time she could look around the house and heads home for the night.

 

The rest of the week transpires in much the same way, Chicago (what a stupid name, _really_ ) spends much of his days working at the production house and continues having dinners and lunches with actresses (and the odd actor).

 

Every other evening, he disappears from her radar behind closed doors and high levels of security, but nothing solidly condemning occurs.

 

When Chloe drifts into her office the following week in an emerald green dress that brings out the ochre tones of her hair, and the azure of her eyes, Beca tells her as much.

 

“You’re right though,” she states across the desk over her folded hands, “There’s definitely something going on.”

 

Chloe sighs a breath that seems to be equal parts relief and unease.

 

Beca understands. It’s as though she’s comforted by the prospect of her suspicions not being entirely unwarranted, but also stung by how it is an altogether horrid situation to be in regardless.

 

“Okay,” she replies simply, crumpling in on herself and momentarily looking small and nothing like the emboldened, glamorous star Beca has come to know her as.

 

“There are a few hours unaccounted for every other evening,” Beca presses on gently, “Where he disappears to a warehouse by the docks and I can’t get close enough to see what’s happening because they have security posted at the gates.”

 

Chloe twitches with something akin to recognition, “The docks?” she speaks quietly.

 

Beca’s not sure what it means yet, but Chloe’s response puts her on alert.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Okay,” Chloe shifts to stand, seemingly lost in her own thoughts.

 

“Can I come over?” the words tumble out of Beca’s mouth unfiltered and inelegant.

 

They cause Chloe’s eyes to snap up to hers with surprise.

 

“To look around, that is,” Beca hurriedly tacks on, “If there’s a time when your husband – if, uh, if it would be okay with you.”

 

After a brief pause Chloe nods, “Yes, of course,” her stiff posturing thaws somewhat, “How’s Thursday?”

 

“Perfect.”

 

* * *

 

 

Beca brushes the back of her hand over her sweaty brow before pressing a button on the intercom system next to the gate.

 

Chloe’s distorted voice crackles through the line, slightly breathy, “Yes?”

 

“Uh, it’s Beca -,” she begins, “– Mitchell.”

 

“The gate is unlocked,” Chloe replies quickly.

 

Walking up the drive almost makes her feel like she has been transported through time. Palm trees line her path and an extravagant water fountain bubbles amidst a blossoming garden on the front lawn. She almost experiences a sense of vertigo looking up at the looming stucco Spanish-style home. It’s a far cry from her own sallow one-bedroom apartment.

 

Before she has even set foot on the first step of the entryway, Chloe has the door open and is beckoning her inside.

 

“You’re here,” she sighs with something akin to solace.

 

Beca tries not to read anything into it as she steps inside, inhaling a lungful of the same scent that lingers in her office any time Chloe has visited.

 

She barely has a moment to absorb her surroundings before Chloe is leading her through an archway to their left and is asking her if she’d like anything to drink.

 

She almost forgets she’s there to work as she accepts a glass of lemonade and sits down beside Chloe on an impossibly soft chaise lounge.

 

“I have to say, I’m glad you’re here,” Chloe speaks, voice tinkling similarly to the ice in her glass.

 

Beca flushes, “Yeah? Why’s that.”

 

“I’m not filming at the moment,” Chloe snags her lower lip between her teeth, “And my mind has been a little preoccupied.”

 

“Oh,” Beca responds, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

 

“No, no,” Chloe smiles gently, “It’s fine, I’m fine. It’s just nice to have someone over… to talk.”

 

Beca smiles at that, taking a sip of her lemonade.

 

“I’m not sure whether you’ll find anything,” Chloe’s tone dims, “But you’re more than welcome to look anywhere you please.”

 

Chloe shadows her through a few rooms, asking her questions about where she grew up, and how she got into the business, but she disappears shortly after when the phone rings down the hall.

 

Beca has found herself in what she can only assume is Chicago’s study. It’s full of rich mahogany furniture and looming bookcases.

 

She rounds the desk and her eyes immediately zero in on a shiny silver padlock securing the bottom drawer closed.

 

Quirking an eyebrow, she reaches into her bag to procure a set of lock picking utensils.

 

It’s surprisingly simple to unlock (you’d really think being _that_ wealthy could afford you a more secure locking system). Beca can only assume that the only person he’s trying to keep out is his wife.

 

At first glance it’s less of a shocking reveal than she’d hoped for, inside are a few documents that aren’t particularly incriminating, and some bank receipts. Delving a little deeper, beneath the loose scraps of paper, she discovers a manila envelope. When she pries it open, a lone eyebrow arches with intrigue.

 

This she might be able to work with.

 

Inside is a stack of cash. If she were to estimate, a few thousand dollars. There’s also a sheet of paper with scratchy cursive lettering. At first she thinks it’s some kind of code, it’s so messy that it’s difficult to decipher, but upon closer inspection she comes to realise it’s dates, times, dollar amounts, and names.

 

Names she recognises. Names that set off alarm bells in her mind.

 

She takes a picture and notes down the relevant information in her own journal before reattaching the lock and continuing her sweep through the house. Unsettled and on edge.

 

She knows she’s reached Chloe’s bedroom when the floral scent engulfs her.

 

It’s a beautiful, simple, and yet elegant space. She wanders slowly through the room, noting the window she’d watched Chloe through last week, as she enters her walk-in closet. It’s extravagant and completely breathtaking. There are rows upon rows of glamorous dresses, shoes, handbags, and displays of jewellery Beca knows cost more than her apartment, car, and office space combined.  
  
She’s running her fingers delicately over the material of a backless black dress, envisioning how Chloe would look in it, when she hears a throat clear from behind her.

 

“It’s an Elsa Schiaparelli,” Chloe smiles as Beca whips around, cheeks aflame.

 

“I’m sorry, I -,” Beca scrambles, eyes wide.

 

“It’s fine,” Chloe’s tone is kind, “I said you could look anywhere you pleased.”

 

“Yeah, but -,” Beca shakes her head.

 

“It’s _fine,”_ Chloe smiles, “Come here.”

 

She wanders over to a shelf, upon which rests a royal blue velvet jewellery tray.

 

Picking up a ring between two delicate fingers, she holds it out to Beca, letting it catch the light. The gemstone is a deep blue colour, and the band is silver.

 

“It’s benitoite,” She smiles, reaching out for Beca’s clammy hand, “The colour,” Beca’s skin burns where Chloe holds it, as she slides the ring over her knuckle, “It reminded me of you… your eyes.”

 

Chloe doesn’t let go of Beca’s hand as she tilts it in her grasp experimentally, admiring the way the gemstone catches the light.

 

Beca feels Chloe’s gaze slide up to her face and she wills herself to look up from where their hands are clasped. When she does, she feels as though all of the air in her body is physically ripped from her lungs. Chloe’s gaze is so soft, and yet it bleeds with something fiery and hot that Beca can’t quite grasp.

 

“I’d like for you to have it,” Chloe hums, face impossibly close, impossibly beautiful.

 

It takes Beca’s mind a few long seconds to catch up before she’s shaking her head and spluttering, “No, I can’t that’s – I couldn’t…”

 

Chloe squeezes her hand just once before letting it go, which almost causes Beca to flounder even more, “Please? I insist. It’s too small for me anyway, you would be saving me a trip to the jeweller.”

 

Something in Chloe’s eyes stops Beca from arguing any further, “This is, I um… _thank you_ ,” She hopes her gaze burns with the same sentimentality as Chloe’s had.

 

Looking down at her hand again, she notes how her flesh still prickles pleasantly with the ghost of Chloe’s touch.

 

“Did you find anything?” Chloe regards her closely.

 

Beca looks up from her hand slowly, taking a moment to shake the bewilderment that has settled over her, “It’s hard to know,” she shrugs, “Nothing too suspicious, but I do have a lead I’ll chase once I return to my office.”

 

She can’t bring herself to say what she thinks she may know. Not yet. Not in this moment.

 

“Oh,” Chloe hums, “So you’re finished here then?”

 

“I’ve uh, been through all of the rooms, yes,” Beca nods.

 

“Okay, when can I –,” Chloe takes a step toward her, “When _should_ we meet again?”

 

“Tomorrow?”

 

“Tomorrow.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _Tomorrow_ eventually turns into the following evening as that morning the news of Theodore Burnett’s shocking death rocks the city.

 

This is interesting to Beca for two primary reasons. Theodore Burnett was the co-owner of Melrose Productions, Chicago’s prosperous production house.

 

And also, after spending most of the day speaking with her connections, and fact checking, she’s almost one hundred per cent certain that Chloe’s husband is involved with the mob.

 

She’s really never been the type of person to believe in coincidences, but she also _really_ doesn’t want to startle or offend Chloe.

 

Or cause a public scandal.

 

But still, she’s pretty certain from the names written on the paper, and the stacks of cash, that there isn’t much room for another explanation. Within the written notes, she deciphers a few key dates and times of potential meetings. What she finds matches up with the instances in which Chicago had disappeared to the docks. She also notes that there is a meeting scheduled for two days from now.

 

It’s a meeting she’d very much like to be a fly on the wall for.

 

She’s poring over the notes in her journal later that evening, weighing her options, when she hears a quick knocking at the door, followed promptly by it swinging open.

 

“Beca,” Chloe sighs in relief as she tumbles through the door to her office.

 

When she whips the sunglasses from her face, Beca notices her eyes are red-rimmed and glassy.

 

“Ms Beale,” Beca sighs, standing up.  She takes a few steps toward her, but falters.

 

“I’m sorry,” Chloe’s all but trembling as she collapses in the chair, “I just – you’ve heard?”

 

Beca nods sympathetically.

 

The next words out of Chloe’s mouth stump her though, said with so much finality and conviction it causes Beca to pause.

 

“It was him.”

 

“What?”

 

“My husband. He did it, I know he did.”

 

Beca perches herself on the corner of the desk, weighing her words, “I thought this was all just about infidelity.”

 

“It _could be_ ,” Chloe huffs, “But I just -,” She shakes her head, “I didn’t really think – until you mentioned the docks.”

 

Beca swivels slightly, closer toward Chloe, “What’s at the Docks?”

 

Beca’s heartrate is rising. Chloe seems to be less in the dark about this whole situation than she had first thought.

 

“You don’t know?” Chloe’s asks with an air of surprise, “The mafia operates from the docks.”

 

Oh.

 

“Do you think your husband is involved with _the mob_?” Beca’s tone conveys a vague air of incredulity, but also the bite of a challenge.

 

“It makes sense,” Chloe replies softly.

 

“How do you know where the mafia is operating from? They’ve been moving their headquarters around so often the police can’t even track them down.”

 

Chloe’s face is stony, pale, as she stares despondently at the desk for a few long moments.

 

“He – _my father –_ is Patrick O’Sullivan.”

 

Patrick O’Sullivan. The Notorious crime boss.

 

Beca schools her features, remains silent. Tries to remain calm.

 

“I don’t want anything to do with him,” Chloe continues, “But he always checks in somehow, he always makes sure that I know he’s around.”

 

Beca’s caught somewhere between feeling both empathetic and wounded. In some rational corner of her brain she’s aware that Chloe owes her no explanation, they have a professional relationship and nothing more, but she can’t help but flinch at the white hot pang of betrayal that scorches her insides.

 

“My childhood wasn’t ideal,” Chloe’s voice wavers tearfully as she speaks, “When I met Chicago I thought it was my ticket out, to a happier life, and it was in a sense… but life with him hasn’t been much less turbulent, I should have known that -,” She takes a steadying breath, “It’s, well it’s how we met. They’re involved, I just know it.”

 

“Why didn’t you tell me? It’s obvious that this was never just about infidelity,” Beca’s voice is quiet. Even further beneath the underlying waves of anger and betrayal, she does understand why.

 

“I wasn’t sure if I could trust you,” Chloe’s eyes skitter nervously, “Something like this could ruin me.”

 

She looks so broken and fragile, deflated in the armchair, head bowed; nothing like the character she portrays in the public eye.

 

Beca feels broken down at the sight, and has to stop herself from reaching out for her. Her wayward hand makes it halfway across the desk between them before she hesitates, but Chloe meets her halfway.

 

Both of Chloe’s hands clasp around her own, and Beca takes a few sharp, staccato breaths as she feels it being tugged toward Chloe’s face. Beca exhales slowly as Chloe presses the captive palm against her own warm cheek, humming contentedly as she runs her thumb over the ring still residing on Beca’s finger.

 

“We’ll figure this out, I promise,” Beca hums affectionately as she uses her own thumb to trace a soothing pattern against Chloe’s cheekbone.

 

* * *

 

 

For some reason they wind up at Beca’s apartment a little while later that evening. Chloe hadn’t wanted to go home, Beca hadn’t really wanted her to either, so they’re there now.

 

Chloe is tucked up on her simple lounge chair; a vision, barefoot, and wearing a – no doubt designer - dress that reaches just above her knees.

 

Beca had felt self-conscious leading Chloe into her home, especially after scrutinising her Beverly Hills estate so astutely, but the feeling had waned considerably as she watched Chloe breeze through the space, smiling whimsically as she trailed delicate fingertips over photo frames, her record player, and the upright piano in the corner of the room.

 

Chloe watches from her perch on the couch as Beca saunters toward the piano to slide a piece of wooden panelling aside. Reaching in she procures a bottle of whisky. “Drink?” she asks, gesturing toward Chloe with the bottle.

 

Chloe licks her lips and crosses her legs, eyes aflame with intrigue, “That’s illegal.”

 

Beca pours her a glass anyway.

 

“If ever there was a day for liquor, this is it.”

 

Chloe reaches out for the glass when Beca proffers it, cheeks tinged pink.

 

Once Beca takes a seat, Chloe turns toward her, holding out her glass, “To fast friends,” she smiles subduedly.

 

Beca grins and mimics her toast before taking a large swig.

 

Chloe sips her own gingerly.

 

“Do you play?” Chloe asks, gesturing toward the piano with her glass.

 

“Oh,” Beca shrugs, “I dabble, I guess.”

 

“Play me something.”

 

She’s not certain whether it’s a question or a command, and if it were anyone else Beca probably would have bristled, but as it is she’s already feeling warm from the whisky and Chloe’s impossibly doe like eyes (and okay, yeah, maybe she’s feeling a little eager to impress present company) so she nods and saunters over to the piano, and after sliding the wooden cover back, she takes a seat.

 

Chloe’s still watching her eagerly from the couch as Beca fiddles with the keys, plucking out something unrecognisable for a few moments before she eases into the beginning of _Dream a Little Dream of Me_. It’s flawlessly unhurried, and Beca loses herself in the melody, letting her fingers dance along the keys as if of their own accord. She closes her eyes and smiles as she begins to sing the words. 

 

She’s so lost in the tune, so lost in singing and playing and basking in that oh so familiar feeling of _becoming_ the music, that she doesn’t notice that Chloe has followed her across the room until she’s sitting down beside her on the bench, close enough for their thighs and shoulders to brush.

 

Beca’s eyes open and look over to watch her thoughtfully for a moment, never once faltering with the song, as Chloe smiles encouragingly at her; eyes impossibly wide, almost enamoured.

 

In the next verse she takes a breath and joins in, their voices harmonising perfectly.

 

_Stars fading but I linger on dear_

_  
Still craving your kiss_

_  
I'm longing to linger till dawn dear_

_  
Just saying this…_

They can’t contain the smiles that break out over their faces as they sing, it’s almost startling how perfectly their voices entwine together. It feels as though they’re encapsulated in their own harmonious bubble, floating through the night without a single care. During that moment, nothing that had transpired in that day, or week, or year, (or lifetime) seems to matter anymore. It all feels so small, and so far away. So insignificant.

 

As the song draws to a close they just watch each other, letting the final notes linger in the air between them as they smile, somewhat awed, at the moment they’d shared.

 

“You didn’t tell me you could sing,” Chloe smiles and bumps Beca’s shoulder good-naturedly.

 

“Well,” Beca’s eyes turn skyward as she blushes, “You’re the one who sings professionally, like in musicals.”

 

“You’re remarkable, Beca,” Chloe’s tone is earnest as she gently curls a hand around Beca’s bicep, “You _could_ do this professionally.”

 

“Thank you,” she meets Chloe’s eye bashfully, face still flushed, “You’re pretty amazing too, you know?”

 

There’s a heavy pause, wherein something seems to palpably shift between them.

 

“We were, together.”

  

An hour (and a few glasses) later, they have retired back to the couch and Beca can’t help but notice the way Chloe is melting further and further into her side. Her fingers trail absentmindedly up the outer seam of Beca’s trousers, and she’s pressed so closely to her side that when she speaks, her warm, honeyed breath fans over Beca’s ear and down her neck.

 

“Do you have a husband?” Chloe’s head is cocked to the side, inquisitive.

 

Beca laughs, so sharply it almost startles herself, “ _No,”_ she chokes out, “I do not.”

 

“Why not?” Chloe smirks coyly, her cheeks flushed from what Beca can only assume is the alcohol, “A pretty thing such as yourself?”

 

Beca’s face burns hot, not from the alcohol, as she takes a slow sip of her whisky to calm her fluttering heart. They were skirting around dangerous territory, she knew.

 

“Let’s just say,” she pauses, “I don’t think getting married is in the cards for someone like me.”

 

“Someone like you?” Chloe counters, voice laced with mirth, “You mean a reckless, self-governing private eye with no regard for authority, who habitually enjoys taking the law into her own hands and committing crimes? Like that?” she smiles audaciously.

 

“Something like that,” Beca’s returning smile is soft, “But I didn’t finish this bottle alone, Ms Beale.”

 

“Please, call me Chloe.”

 

“Chloe.”

 

“Still,” Chloe smiles, swirling the amber liquid in her glass and downing the remnants, “You’re not all bad. I’m sure there are plenty of men who would love to marry you.”

 

“Gee, thanks,” Beca huffs amusedly, “Although, it’s not so much about what they want, really,” she shrugs, feeling something twist in the pit of her stomach at Chloe’s resulting silence. She’s afraid she’s said too much.

 

Chancing a glance at Chloe’s expression, she attempts to gauge what she’s thinking by the dim lamplight, but her face is unreadable. Whether she doesn’t quite get it, or she’s simply being ever the actress, Beca can’t be sure.

 

“You’re right,” she says finally, resolutely.

 

Beca cracks a smile, feeling giddy from both the whisky and Chloe’s presence.

 

She loses herself for a moment, sinking into the luminescence of Chloe’s gaze, and the way a delightful heat emanates from the palm pressed against her knee and shoots directly up her thigh.

 

“It’s a shame the colour of your eyes can’t be captured on screen,” Beca’s voice is low, measured, “You’re too vibrant for black and white.”

 

Chloe’s cheeks flush as her face breaks into an almost involuntary smile, possibly the biggest Beca has seen since she’d met her.

 

Beca knows she probably looks foolish; dumbstruck, awestruck, starstruck, above all else _struck._ She can feel her mouth gaping, lip trembling, and eyes widening as her gaze flits down to Chloe’s lips.

 

She should have known that the whisky was a foolish idea. It made her looser, foolhardier. It lowered her inhibitions, made her recklessly wonder… _what’s so wrong about this, really?_

 

Because, in that moment, there wasn’t a single thing she could come up with.

 

Beca looks into Chloe’s smiling eyes, trails her gaze down the slope of a nose, lingers on her plump lips before sliding lower. Her languid gaze washes over feminine curves; the delicacy of a collar bone, the swell of a breast, the dip of a hip, before returning home to her eyes which act as a beacon of light amidst the wild tempest of her emotions.

 

In that moment, with her heart positively brimming with awe and adoration, she can’t come up with a single reason why she, as a woman, loving another woman could be _anything_ but marvellous, heavenly, pure; along with any and _every_ other celestial feeling ever described.

 

She almost chokes on her own tongue when she feels the hand that had been splayed against her knee slide upwards with purpose.

 

When she turns her face toward Chloe questioningly, the words die on her lips. Chloe’s face is close enough to hers that she feels their lips brush ever so slightly with the movement.

 

Chloe’s eyes are closed tight, brow furrowed, and she’s pressed firmly into Beca’s side. Fingertips are drawing a swirling pattern now against the _inside_ seam of her trousers.

 

Beca spares a moment to think about how this is _Chloe Beale_ pressed into her, _on_ her. It feels so surreal, unbelievable; she almost doesn’t.

 

A moment later she feels her brain completely short circuit and whiteout as Chloe’s lips slide slowly, tentatively over hers. Her entire body feels fuzzy, as though all of her blood has been replaced by the indistinct grey static that appears on the television sets in store windows. It buzzes under her skin, culminating in her chest and behind her ears.

 

She feels Chloe’s other hand, the one not pressed against her thigh, slide over her cheek and through her hair as a whisky soaked tongue licks tenderly at the seam of her lips. 

 

It’s delightful, unhurried, heavy, and overwhelming, and when Beca’s mouth falls open on a gasp, and their tongues meet, Beca finds herself jerking backwards, away from Chloe like she’s been burned.

 

Chloe’s dazed gaze meets Beca’s own shocked and fearful one, and she jolts upwards.

 

“Beca, Becs, Did I -,” she licks her kiss swollen lips, “Are you okay? I thought…”

 

“No,” she stumbles, fingers coming up to trail over her bottom lip reflexively, “Yes, I mean – I’m fine.”

 

“Where’d you go then?” Chloe’s tone is soft, nervous. Her fingers twitch in her lap in a way that tells Beca she’s yearning to reach out, but is stopping herself.

 

“I’m worried this is moving too quickly,” Beca whispers, “That you’re upset about your husband. I don’t want to take advantage of you, Chloe.”

 

“I’ve thought about you,” Chloe’s cuts in quickly, her tone is rushed, not harsh, but less graceful than usual. Lacking her usual tact. “A lot.” Her eyes are beseeching, “This isn’t because I’m heartbroken, or because I’m curious, or because I’ve been drinking. This is because I have dreamt of this moment since I first walked into your office, please know this.”

 

Her words seem so genuine that it almost floors Beca for a moment. Azure eyes watch her so intently, sparkling with desire, and hope, and trust, and about a million other things that Beca can’t put her finger on as they flicker back and forth between hers imploringly. She reaches out and grips Beca’s hand tightly as she shifts forward a fraction, her warm whisky-laden breath fans across Beca’s face. She places another brief, barely there, kiss against Beca’s lips; an almost hopeful, last-stitch effort way to converse her feelings without actually saying a word. Beca can almost taste the way Chloe’s unspoken ‘ _please_ ’ bleeds into her mouth.

 

“You’re sure?” Beca sighs, her resolve slipping as Chloe’s fingers twitch against her thigh.  

 

“Sugar, I’ve never been so sure about anything in my entire life,” Chloe’s voice is soft and sweet, like warm honey oozing languorously over her skin, into her mouth and dripping downward to fill every hollow nook and crevice of Beca’s mind and body with unhurried purpose. 

 

Beca’s eyes slide shut as she basks in the feeling. Every reason why they _shouldn’t,_ begins to ebb further and further from her mind until they are nothing more than wisps of a feeling, foggy and barely identifiable. All that is left in their place is a warm glowing yellow light. Like late august sunshine.

 

_This feels right, this feels right, this feels right._

She may or may not have said the words aloud, she can’t be sure, but in the next moment Chloe is humming something akin to an agreement against her lips and is swinging a thigh across her hips to straddle her.

 

The skirt of Chloe’s dress rides high on her thighs from the action and Beca inhales sharply when her hands meet bare flesh.

 

When Beca trails her mouth lower, over Chloe’s jaw and down the slope of her neck, Chloe purrs in appreciation and arches. She tilts her neck to bare her throat and rolls her hips forward, her hum of approval vibrating beneath Beca’s lips.

 

“You’re so beautiful,” Beca murmurs fervently, drawing back to meet Chloe’s lust-clouded gaze. Something inside of her burns so hot, so bright with her _need_ for Chloe to believe it. To understand that Beca isn’t just saying it to say it. That she _has_ to say it because every cell in her body is screaming it so deafeningly that she can barely hear herself think.

 

Chloe tilts her head backwards and reaches out for Beca’s hands, leading them firmly up and over her hips to the zipper running along her spine. 

 

Beca’s hands tremble as she eases it down, mouth drying as her fingers brush against the smooth skin at the small of Chloe’s back.

 

“You are too,” Chloe sighs a few long moments later.

 

The way Chloe’s eyes absolutely _bleed_ with sincerity has Beca wholeheartedly believing her. It feels right, like everything is in slow motion. Like they’re in one of Chloe’s films and it has been filtered and edited in such a way to make it all feel absolutely _perfect._  

 

When Chloe shifts her hips and tugs her dress over her head, Beca stops breathing.

 

The dress is promptly discarded somewhere on the floor and Chloe is sitting atop her in a set of matching peach coloured undergarments. A loose fitting, silk brassiere hangs from Chloe’s chest, doing very little to hide the straining flesh beneath as she looks down upon Beca with hooded eyes.

 

She looks like an angel, or a goddess, or something else not of this earth.

 

Beca trails a reverent touch across her abdomen and up over her ribs before dipping her fingertips beneath the silk material. She’s still not certain whether she has even taken a breath yet, but she acknowledges that she feels somewhat lightheaded as her fingertips ghost over taut flesh.

 

Moments later she feels Chloe’s hands working at her belt, unbuttoning her trousers and pushing desperately, persistently at them to get them down and off of Beca’s legs. Beca lifts herself up and aids in their removal, kicking them across the room somewhere alongside Chloe’s discarded dress.

 

With a soft hum of Beca’s name, Chloe leans forward and recaptures her lips in a soul splintering kiss. Her hips slide backwards a fraction against Beca’s thighs with the movement. The way the smooth material of Chloe’s silk tap shorts, and the delicious heat emanating from beneath them, glides against her bare flesh causes Beca’s hips to roll upwards of their own volition.

 

Beca hadn’t even been aware of the whereabouts of Chloe’s hands until she’s leaning backwards and Chloe is suddenly topless. Her breath catches in her throat at the realisation.

 

“Oh,” she stutters, eyes flitting between Chloe’s bare chest, rising and falling with her laboured breaths, and her face; eyes dark, and lips kiss swollen.

 

Beca’s certain she’s never been privy to a more magnificent sight in her entire life.

 

Leaning in slowly, she places a gentle, awed kiss to the curve of Chloe’s breast before gliding her lips to her nipple and bathing it unhurriedly with her tongue. She feels one of Chloe’s hands trail up her neck and weave through the hair at the base of her skull, seemingly without any real motive other than to touch; to be in contact in some way. 

 

Chancing a glance upwards, Beca watches the way Chloe’s body arches against her mouth, how her eyes remain closed, but eyelashes flutter much like a frantic butterfly’s wings.

 

How when Beca bites down on flesh, her mouth falls open in surprise.

 

“Beca,” she sighs, hips rolling, “Can we -,” the hand pressed against Beca’s skull fists, causing Beca’s lips to leave her skin on a gasp, “Bedroom?”

 

Beca’s nodding up at her, a little bewildered, as Chloe scoots off her lap gracefully and reaches out for her hand. She barely has time to acknowledge the fact that Chloe is leading her through _her own_ apartment by the hand like she owns the place, before Chloe has them at the foot of her bed and is unbuttoning Beca’s blouse with deft fingers.

 

Her entire body tingles with warmth as Chloe slides the material down her arms and liberates her of her bra. She feels uncertain under Chloe’s steady gaze; hot and flushed. But when Chloe trails a feather light touch over her ribs and dips her head to taste the sweat-slicked flesh of her breast every insecure thought is washed away.

 

Beca sighs, feeling weightless and pliant when Chloe curls her strong fingers against her hips and presses her down on the edge of the bed, never once halting her mouths journey across her chest.

 

It’s simultaneously slow, and yet overwhelming; overstimulating, but unhurried. Like they’re wading through thick molasses and she can’t _breathe_ or _think_ , but it’s so sweet, and so exquisite that she also can’t bring herself to care.

 

Chloe’s mouth is on hers again and she’s straddling her lap, mirroring their position on the couch. Her tongue licks listlessly against Beca’s lips and into her mouth as she runs her hands over skin without direction.

 

Beca feels as though she’s losing a fight she didn’t even know she was partaking in. She’d had no idea that Chloe would be so bold, so impassioned. The way she was portrayed in the pictures always made her seem so demure, so decorous. Beca really should have known in the first moment that Chloe walked into her office that she was a force of nature. She should have known when she’d been cornered in the walk-in closet that demure women don’t _look_ at other women’s lips _like that_. With hunger burning in their eyes. In their souls.

 

But Beca feels as though she’s been kept in the dark all of her life, how was she to know?

 

After Chloe stumbled into her life and switched on the lights, how is she supposed to be anything but blinded?

 

Chloe’s pressing her weight heavily against her, forcing her backwards against the pillows and sliding their (almost) naked bodies together.

 

Beca’s hands land high on Chloe’s thighs, fingertips dipping just below silk as she gasps into her mouth.

 

Chloe’s sucking on her tongue and Beca can’t help the clipped moan of surprise that rises from the back of her throat because it’s all so _filthy_. So unexpected.

 

“I’ve thought about this,” Chloe breathes, her quiet words pouring into Beca’s open mouth, “You,” she rolls her hips to accentuate her point, “So much.”

 

Beca groans in response, fingertips bruising against Chloe’s hips, “Me too – _God_ – me too.”

 

The thought of Chloe thinking of her, _desiring_ her causes something molten to swell behind her ribcage. It doesn’t seem real. Women like that don’t _like_ women like her. She doesn’t get to feel this feeling.

 

But she is, and she does, and Chloe is here with her. Telling her she’s been longing for her. Thinking of her. Feeling the same things as her.

 

_Touching her._

 

Beca’s caught somewhere between feeling content and absolutely terrified. The thought causes her to tremble and sigh.

 

Chloe shifts so she’s propped against her side, and she slides Beca’s underwear from her hips and down her legs, watching voraciously as Beca kicks them off her feet and draws a thigh up and open.

 

Beca consciously has to rein in her uneven breaths when a palm travels over her knee and up her thigh to rest against the crease of her hip. She takes a little comfort in the way the fingers splayed against her flesh tremble. If it weren’t for that one tiny detail, she’d be even more anxious about how collected and in control Chloe appears to be.

 

Chloe’s shifting to straddle her thigh, but on a whim Beca’s hands bracket her hips and halt her movement.

 

She licks her lips and meets Chloe’s curious gaze “I need -,” her fingers come down to pull vainly at the last remaining barrier on Chloe’s body, “Off?” her eyes close in exasperation, “Please, I need to feel you.”

 

Chloe hums in agreement, closing her eyes as though in an effort to reclaim some semblance of equanimity.

 

She shifts her hips and tugs her underwear down and off her legs, smiling down at Beca as she moves to straddle her thigh once again.

 

When Chloe’s burning, slick heat presses against her skin, Beca’s astonished gaze snaps downward to ensure that the flesh of her thigh hasn’t been completely melted away. It’s still intact, but she’s uncertain if she can say the same for the vast majority of her brain cells. Especially when the white hot feeling transfers and brands _that_ particular image into her mind for eternity. 

 

“God, you’re perfect,” Beca utters, mostly to herself, mostly as a wayward thought that’s somehow rattled loose and escapes on an outbreath.

 

But it still causes Chloe to smile and lean forward against her body, rolling her hips down the length of Beca’s thigh as she presses their breasts together and kisses her soundly.

 

“And you,” Chloe’s voice is deeper, huskier than Beca has ever heard it, “Are,” Chloe’s fingers have begun to trail lightly between her legs, “Everything,” two fingers press against her entrance, “That I,” they trail a slick path up through her folds, “Have _ever_ ,” Chloe’s breath flows over Beca’s ear as she presses her lips against the skin there and circles her bundle of nerves once, twice, “Dreamed of.”

 

Beca feels the words resonate in her mind and body like a sonic boom.

 

Both Chloe’s words and her touch intertwining ignite a flame inside of Beca so hot and rampant that a surprised cry tumbles from her open mouth.

 

Chloe watches her with rapt attention as she trails her fingers downward and skirts Beca’s entrance. Shifting forward slightly, she grinds her own wetness against Beca’s quivering thigh as she presses her knee against the back of her hand and glides her fingers into Beca’s warmth with a delighted sigh.

 

“You feel amazing,” she hums, pressing a kiss against Beca’s temple as she establishes a rhythm with her fingers and rolling hips.

 

Beca’s not entirely certain she’s even capable of words, but she feels the returned sentiment lingering on the tip of her tongue as she pants and whines and attempts to regain control of her mind-body synergy.

 

It’s just that she’s been envisioning this moment for as long as she can remember. With Chloe, yes, but even earlier than that, before their meeting, she’d always dreamt of being with a woman in this way, seeing a woman this way, _feeling_ a woman this way.

 

And with Chloe, it was exceeding each and every one of her expectations.

 

She tries to commit as much of it to memory as she can. The feel of Chloe’s hair tickling her flesh, the gentle, yet bold, lips kissing and biting at her throat, the soft flesh of her breasts and belly pressing into Beca’s own body. She feels herself becoming hotter, thinking about it all so vividly. She almost has to ignore the way that Chloe is grinding against her thigh needily, lest she spontaneously combust.  

 

“G-Chlo,” Beca gasps, hands rising to claw against Chloe’s back and through her hair haphazardly, “ _Yes.”_

It’s overwhelming her on every level, both physically and emotionally, so when Chloe curls her fingers _just so_ inside of her and rubs the heel of her palm against her with purpose she’s not surprised that she’s thrust unceremoniously into the unchartered depths of bliss.

 

Chloe watches her with rapt attention as she jolts and her eyes slam shut.

 

She’s caught in that moment of limbo right before falling for what feels like an eternity. It reminds her of when her favourite record skips and repeats. Her pleasure rolls tumultuously again and again, somersaulting endlessly at her core. She’s certain that if it doesn’t arrive _,_ if it doesn’t _crash_ , if it doesn’t just kick back in and _get on with it_ _already_ she’s going to be driven absolutely mad.

 

Her anguished cries of pleasure must translate this fact quite well, because in the next moment Chloe is doubling down her efforts, curling her fingers and grinding harder against her body. Lifting the proverbial phonograph arm and placing it back down to kick-start the song.

 

Beca falls with a heady outbreath of relief on her lips, shaking and basking in the pleasure as, at long last, her release finally crashes down over her like a torrential downpour during a drought.

 

Where her body and soul had been left dry and arid before, yearning for nourishment, love, and affection, she suddenly feels everything Chloe has to give coursing through her, revitalising her. Wildflowers bloom between the cracks of her fragmented soul and she _feels alive._

She smiles wide and laughs, _honest to god laughs,_ as she comes down from the high. Feeling delirious and giddy from the relief and perfection of it all, she breathes deeply and pries her eyes open to look up at where Chloe is still hovering above her.

 

Chloe’s beaming affectionately down upon her, and a chuckle of her own escapes as she stoops low enough to place a chaste kiss against Beca’s smiling lips.

 

“I like the sound of that,” she hums against Beca’s cheek, her fingers dancing upward to tickle at Beca’s ribcage lightly, “The way you laugh.”

 

Beca squirms beneath her fingers, laughing even more at the sensation.

 

“Yeah?” Beca questions, slightly smarmy despite her breathlessness, “I like the way you sound when I-,” and she doesn’t finish her sentence, but in the next moment she’s deliberately grinding her thigh up against Chloe, causing her to inhale sharply with surprise.

 

“Oh,” Chloe falls forward with a moan, “I like – I like that too.”

 

Using Chloe’s distraction to roll her over, Beca settles atop her, a thigh still firmly nestled between Chloe’s own trembling legs.

 

Her mouth trails a scorching path over Chloe’s jaw and across her chest. She spends some time there, worshipping the flesh with her mouth as Chloe squirms beneath her.

 

Chloe’s reaction to Beca’s touch is nothing short of magic. Beca wants to drink in every breath, sound, expression, and movement. She wants to bask in the heady pride it instils in her. The fact that _she’s_ making Chloe feel this way. _She’s_ making Chloe twitch, and shake, and sigh, and smile as though she’s never been this happy before in her life. It’s all Beca’s ever wanted, really.

 

Her mouth tracks a path further down, across her ribs and over the softness of her lower abdomen. When she pokes her tongue into her bellybutton playfully, Chloe giggles and Beca can’t help the grin that breaks out over her own face at the sound.

 

When Beca glances up at Chloe, she feels something stutter and stop within her chest. She can’t help but lick her lips at the sight, tasting salt on her tongue. Patches of reddened wetness mar Chloe’s heaving chest, glistening from where Beca had bathed the flesh so attentively with her teeth and tongue. Her hair is dishevelled, no doubt from running her own hands through it, her lip colour is smeared across her chin, and her cheeks are flushed crimson.

 

Beca takes pride in Chloe’s dismantled appearance.

 

After seeing her as nothing bar the picture of poised perfection for weeks, months, years, it’s unbelievably electrifying to see her now, so debauched, so out of her mind with bliss.

 

The image really does something for Beca.

 

“Is it okay If I -,” she trails off, sighing, as she digs her fingertips into Chloe’s hip, “I need to taste you.”

 

Chloe’s gaze is fiery as she looks down the line of her body to where Beca is nestled between her thighs, watching her. Beca presses a chaste kiss against the inside of Chloe’s thigh, delighting in the way the muscles clench beneath her touch.

 

Beca feels heat prickle on her skin where Chloe’s eyes watch her, and she wonders fleetingly whether it’s actually possible to spontaneously combust.

 

Chloe nods in approval, body shuddering as she weaves her fingers through Beca’s hair, “Please,” she sighs.

 

It’s all she needs, it’s all she wants, it’s all she _has._ Beca feels her stomach flutter and flip with both anticipation and nerves.

 

Trailing her lips against the crease of Chloe’s thigh, Beca inhales deeply and presses forward.

 

It’s everything.

 

She places a few chaste kisses along Chloe’s folds before her tongue deliberately flattens and slides along the length of her.

 

Chloe hums a few faltering, breathless words of encouragement, hooking her legs over Beca’s shoulders as she tugs on her hair and writhes against the sheets with pleasure.  

 

Chancing a glance up through her lashes, Beca can’t stifle the throaty moan that’s drawn from somewhere deep within her chest. Chloe looks absolutely breathtaking in that moment, auburn hair splayed against white sheets, back arched, body drawn tight, mouth open with pleasure. Beca feels herself physically react to the sight; the delicious white heat that floods and swells at her core warms her entire body, oozing through each of her limbs like liquid seeping through cloth.

 

The noises Chloe makes only seem to make the feeling burn brighter. Little sighs gradually transform into gasping moans which become desperate whimpers, and then clipped disjointed words, hums of pleasure, and cries of Beca’s name.

 

Beca finds great pleasure in trailing her lips, tongue, and teeth across Chloe’s swollen flesh and drawing those pretty noises from her lips. She’s in love with each and every sound Chloe makes. From the barely audible sigh that falls from parted lips as Beca teasingly edges Chloe’s sensitive bundle of nerves with her tongue, to the keening sound of desperation she makes when Beca seals her lips around it and sucks. She’s also particularly fond of the deep, rasping groan of surprise that’s torn from Chloe’s throat when Beca presses her tongue against her inner walls and drags it back out slowly, filthily.

 

Every sound she makes is addictive and enthralling.

 

And when she comes.

 

Well, it’s something else entirely.

 

Beca watches Chloe’s quivering, sweat-soaked body in awe as she rides the high. It’s glorious, beautiful, almost cinematic.

 

And, it's safe to say that silent film wouldn’t do the scene any justice.

 

* * *

 

 

“Did you know that the name Rebecca means _beautifully ensnaring,_ ” Chloe murmurs softly, a little while later. They’re still lying in bed and the fingers Chloe has trailing over Beca’s arm and shoulder blades cause goose bumps to erupt.

 

Beca flushes hard, “ _No.”_

 

“Well it does,” Chloe hums, “And you are.”

 

Beca chuckles and buries her face into the pillow self-consciously, her next words come out muffled, “Well, my name’s Beca, so I guess that just makes me ‘ _ensnaring’_ then _,”_ she peeks over at Chloe with a smile before quickly slinging an arm over her shoulder and playfully tugging her in close.

Chloe laughs and rolls her eyes, tapping Beca on the ass to make her relinquish her grip, “Oh hush.”

Beca loosens her grasp around Chloe’s waist as a comfortable silence settles over them. Chloe is still pressed close to her side, propped up on her elbow as she trails a wandering hand over the expanse of Beca’s back.

 

“Are you still in love with your husband?” Beca’s voice is quiet, meek. Almost fearful.

 

Chloe’s fingers halt their path along Beca’s spine for few beats before continuing their journey.

 

“No.”

 

“Were you ever?”

 

Chloe pauses, sighing, “No.”

 

Beca shifts in her arms, rolling onto her side so that she can meet her eye. Chloe’s exploring fingers come to rest against her ribcage.

 

“It was really more of a career move and an act of self-preservation, than a decision born of love,” Chloe admits, gliding her toes along Beca’s calf absently, “He’s not a nice man,” she continues, a pained expression marring her brow, “And I -,” she sighs, “I just don’t want for him to get away with what he has done. It’s unthinkable and unforgivable, but unfortunately there’s really no justice for someone with this amount of wealth.”

 

Beca settles a comforting hand on Chloe’s hip, “Okay, so,” she eyes the spot where Chloe’s fingers rest against her own skin for a long moment before she flits them upward to meet her gaze, “What do you want to do now then?”

 

A slight pout adorns Chloe’s face as she huffs and flops onto her back; palm resting upward on her forehead a little theatrically.

 

“I want to run away,” Chloe sighs, “To Paris, or Monaco,” she rolls to her side again and settles an excitable gaze on Beca, “I want to go somewhere foreign with you and forget about this life.”

 

“ _Chloe,_ ” Beca can’t help but smile even though the tone of her voice is restrained, “What about your career?”

 

“I don’t care,” she implores, “I don’t care about any of it. I don’t care about the money, or the fame, I just want to be with you. Away from this. You make me feel-,” she shakes her head and practically vibrates with unbridled vigor, “I don’t know, I never knew it could feel like this. I just want to be with you, and feel this way, forever.”

 

“I do too, trust me, but you can’t just run away from your life,” Beca reasons, “People will recognise you no matter how far we go.”

 

“I’ll dye my hair blonde,” Chloe presses a tender kiss against Beca’s shoulder, “Or shave it off.”

 

“You’d still be annoyingly gorgeous either way.”

 

“You’re charming.”

 

Beca feels giddy despite the heaviness of their situation.

 

“We could sing together, “Chloe smiles, lacing their fingers together, “Travel through Europe performing,” she pauses a beat, settling a heavy, and yet hopeful gaze on Beca, “The world deserves to know your talent, my love.”

 

Beca smiles at her coyly, flushed, and after a brief, thoughtful lull in conversation, she licks her lips and peers at Chloe through her lashes. Her tone is fervent as she whispers, “Do you trust me?”

 

Chloe’s hand rises to caress her face, “Yes, of course.”

 

“I think I have a plan.”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a risky plan. A lot could go wrong, and they’d only had half of a day to work out the logistics of it before it was set in motion. But it was really their only chance.

 

Beca is sitting in her apartment, leg bouncing with anxiety as she awaits Chloe’s arrival. A radio rests on the windowsill beside her on low volume as she stares out onto the rain soaked streets of Los Angeles.

 

She spares an amused thought to how fitting the change in weather has been. With the assistance of the bucketing rain, the heatwave has been well and truly broken. She sighs in relief at the cool breeze that floats through a crack in her window. In more ways than one this day has been a much needed release.

 

Though it’s not over yet.

 

Chloe is supposed to be there by now. Quite a few hours have passed since Beca had last seen her. They’d bid each other goodbye that morning, Beca had accomplished everything she needed to do in the afternoon, and the clock is now pushing nine in the evening. Granted, Chloe did have a lot to prepare for, but Beca’s stomach is in knots with her need to know that she is okay, and that everything had gone according to their plan.

 

She also really just misses her. Which in itself may be just a little foolish considering she had only seen her ten hours prior. But still, she can’t deny the forlorn tug in her chest whenever she thinks about Chloe; about the way she smells, the way she feels, the way she laughs, the way she kisses. The feeling is new, and truth be told she’s quite fond of it.

 

She’s tugged out of her reverie when the door to her apartment swings open and Chloe shuffles inside. She has a scarf wrapped over her head, tied neatly in a bow under her chin, and she’s carrying two large suitcases. Beca notices that she’s a little damp from the downpour outside, so she jumps to her feet and rushes over to her, tugging the blanket from the back of the couch on her way.

 

“Chloe,” Beca breathes her name with relief as she helps her set the suitcases aside and wraps the blanket over her shoulders, “You’re here.”

 

“Yes,” she sighs, sounding a little weary.

 

Beca runs her hands over Chloe’s cheeks, down her neck, and over her shoulders soothingly.

 

“How did you -,” Beca begins, swallowing noisily when she feels her heart creep into her throat, “Did you get everything done?”

 

Chloe nods slowly, gesturing to the suitcases in the corner, “I did,” she wanders over to the couch and takes a seat, Beca trails closely behind.

 

Beca nods, lacing her fingers with Chloe’s, “That’s good,” she falters, “Is that good?”

 

Chloe shoots her a lopsided smile before leaning over to kiss her, “Yes, of course it’s good,” she strokes her fingers through Beca’s hair and watches her for a moment, “There’s enough money there to keep us going for a long time,” she tilts her head slightly to gesture at the suitcases, “The rest is somewhere safe where we can come back to when we need it.”

 

Beca kisses her cheek soundly, concern etched across her face, “Are you sure about this? I don’t want you to be uncomfortable with anything, or regret what we’re doing.”

 

Chloe smiles at her with adoration as she captures Beca’s lips in another kiss, “Of course I’m sure, this part was my idea, remember?” she murmurs against them, “I want this. I want _you_.”

 

Beca’s face melts into an easy smile once more. That is, until her attention is captured by a lock of hair peeking out from behind Chloe’s scarf.

 

Beca gasps, “Did you?”

 

Chloe shrugs, acting coy, “Maybe.”

 

Tugging at the scarf with deft fingers, Beca lets her fingers glide through Chloe’s soft, golden-coloured hair with glee.

 

“You did!”

 

“Do you like it?” Chloe questions with a smile, biting her lip.

 

Beca ruffles her hair playfully and kisses her on the mouth, “Annoyingly gorgeous, as always.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You look beautiful, _ma chérie,_ ” Chloe husks, smirking as Beca frowns and tugs at the skirt of her dress with irritation.

 

The sea breeze tousles their hair as they wander along the expansive deck of the ship.

 

“Shut up,” Beca laughs, playfully elbowing her.

 

Chloe tuts in return, chiding her impishly, “Now, now, you need to act like a lady.”

 

“I will do no such thing,” her smirk drops and she yelps as an unexpected gust of wind sends her skirt billowing about her legs, causing her to trip on the decking in her heels, “How do you _do_ this?! Pants are so much more practical I feel like I’m going to flash the entire ship and break an ankle in the process.”

 

“Oh hush, you’re fine,” Chloe holds Beca’s hand a little longer than necessary after reaching out to steady her, “Besides,” she leans in, whispering conspiratorially, “When we get back to our suite I can show you how _practical_ skirts can really be.”

 

Beca is rendered speechless for a moment at the insinuation, almost tripping over her own feet again as she nods dumbly, “Oh yeah?”

 

Chloe’s grin widens, “Yeah. Maybe I can even help you brush up on your French too.”

 

Yeah. Okay. Maybe starting over wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

 

 

* * *

 

**_Los Angeles Times August 3 rd, 1933_ **

**_CHICAGO WALP ON TRIAL FOR MURDER OF THEODORE BURNETT_ **

**_WIFE CHLOE BEALE MYSTERIOUSLY VANISHES – FOUL PLAY?_ **

****

* * *

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> These gals are savage. I tried to play around with a detective noir style of writing but it sort of derailed partway through and I really don't know what this became in the end, so I'd love to hear your thoughts. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


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